XXV

A few days afterwards Felise started early in the morning to meet Martial. She was half an hour before the usual time; she was restless and anxious, and could not wait. There was no definite cause for her anxiety⁠—it was a vague feeling of uneasiness, traceable in a great measure to the unhappy death of Mary. By that sudden loss her confidence in the future had been shaken.

Till some sharp sorrow comes we look forward frankly, and never question the certainty that tomorrow will bring the same settled and pleasant circumstances which surround us today.

Her confidence in the future was shaken. Martial was hers now⁠—but tomorrow?

Mary had only left the house an hour, when under the uncontrollable impulse of her secret unhappiness she leaped into the mill-pool.

Felise could not bear Martial to be away from her; so long as he was near, her heart was at peace; the instant he was gone, her uneasiness returned. She could not wait till the usual time, but started too soon.

There was also the thought that now Martial had given up his farm, in a little while he would leave his house, and would perhaps go from her for months⁠—no one could say for how long.

The brook by which she walked flowed on through the meadow, now with its waters level with the sward, now deep between steep banks where the current had worn away the earth. Sometimes a blackbird rushed out from under a hawthorn-bush at her approach; the blackbird loves the water always, and most of all in the warm August days. Now and again the breeze rustled the green flags, tipped with brown, and the tall reeds in the corner seemed to advance and step towards her as they bowed. Felise walked musing by the brook, dreaming in the sunshine, through the shadow of the willows and alders, by the purple loosestrife lifting its spires almost to her hand, by the green rushes where the furrow came to the stream.

Far, far up in the azure there were thin wisps of white cloud idling motionless in the air, flecks such as a painter might throw from his brush; and between them yet more faint and extended webs of vapour. It was hardly cloud⁠—it was thistledown cloud⁠—so fine, delicate, and vanishing, the eye could scarcely trace the lines and pencilling on the sky.

Less brilliantly white because it passed through these, the sunshine fell softly upon the aftermath⁠—on the short grass; and in the brook, looking down from the high bank, she saw the image of the sun, shorn of his dazzling rays, reflected in the water.

The heat was not so overwhelming, the light not so fiery and white-hot; the breeze which blew at times came almost cool, and the rustling of the flags sounded dreamily. A softness and repose had settled on the aftermath and on the stubble; there was haze in the distance, and the masses of elm foliage were rounded and smooth.

The cawing of the rooks going over scarce disturbed the silence of the morning; there was a tone of complacent rest in their calls to each other. Nothing was quick or suggested haste but the hist-hist of a wood-pigeon’s wings cleaving the air with vehement strokes.

Flags and tall grasses and green things, growing down to the water’s edge and encroaching on the bank, hid the forget-me-nots under their tangled cover.

Once again the shadow was idle on the dial; Time was idle, drowsy in summer indolence.

Away in the stubble women were gleaning, gathering ears of wheat from among the streaked convolvulus and the pale field veronica. A sound of pastoral things stays in the word “gleaning;” yet It is the most aching of labours⁠—stoop, stoop, stoop. They laboured and sought the ears of wheat while the summer was slumbering around them.

Love lingered by the brook and watched the running water, touching the reeds and letting them slip through the fingers, pausing to gather a flower, and then in the act sparing it. Let it bloom; do not injure a flower; let it stay in the sunshine by the running stream.

All things seem possible in the open air.

By the water some part of her old faith returned to her. The voice of the sunshine was hope; in the breeze there was a soothing reassurance; a swallow flew before her, following the winding brook low over the sward, and thought shot forward swifter than he.

There are moments when the earth is so beautiful that sorrow seems a dream. It cannot be⁠—it is not real, this regret; we have fancied it, or surely the sun would not shine, the water sparkle like this. To the beautiful, sadness is unknown⁠—it is not in its sphere; is this why we instinctively cling to loveliness?

He had said that he could not love her; yet by the running water, in the soft light of the cloud-shaded sunshine, she felt that it was not true: he would love her, he must love. Some day he must love her.

So by the stream and through the woodlands Felise came to the old barn, and sat down under the chestnut-tree. A jackdaw flew from it, calling jack-jack-daw as he passed over the ridge of yellow-red tiles. In a minute or two she got up⁠—she had sat down opposite the cavernous space where the doors of the barn had been⁠—and went round the tree and sat down so as to have it between her and the barn. Either there had been some slight scarce perceptible movement of something in the barn, or the shadow had deepened, or her imagination, more nervous than usual, fancied it. Of course it was nothing⁠—she would have laughed at the idea of the barn being haunted; yet she went round and sat down behind the chestnut.

Almost immediately a hand was placed on her shoulder; she started, and, as happens in sudden alarm, her lips parted. Before she could cry out a handkerchief was thrust between her teeth, choking the sound in her throat. A loop of stout cord descended round her shoulders and was drawn tight effectually pinioning her arms. Savage force was used to throw her on the ground, and the cord rapidly wound round and round her body to her ankles till she lay swathed in rope. So swiftly was it done that she was helpless before she recognised Robert Godwin.

He knew her strength; it would have been difficult even for him, powerful as he was, to have mastered her in fair wrestling: at least it would have taken time⁠—there would have been a struggle.

But the sudden gag in her mouth not only prevented her crying out, it seemed for the moment to stop her breath; she was, too, sitting down, a position unfavourable to effort. The loop of rope fastened her arms; she was thrown and bound, at his mercy.

Roughly turning her over and over to wind the cord about her, he had not recked that her beautiful face must touch the earth. Now she lay as he had left her on her back, extended at full length; there were marks where a root had pressed into the soft cheek, and a dry leaf adhered to her forehead. Her hat had fallen off⁠—her head was bare.

From below the shoulder to her ankles she was wrapped in a spiral of rope, preventing all movement of her limbs; she could lift her head, her limbs were powerless.

An undulation⁠—a wave of muscular exertion went along her form; with all her strength she strove to burst the cords. They would not yield; her breast heaved⁠—her torso seemed to enlarge as she inflated her chest, and setting her shoulders firmly, arched her back and lifted herself, suspended between the neck and the feet. Twice the undulation passed along her form⁠—twice she raised herself on her neck and heels, the body suspended between⁠—arched⁠—and with her limbs pressed outwards against her bonds. All the strength of her beautiful torso⁠—all the strength inhaled upon the hills⁠—was put forth in those great efforts; the rope stretched, but would not give way. Then she lay still and looked up at Godwin.

His face, usually so black, was blanched to a ghastly paleness⁠—a paleness behind which the dark and sombre expression still remained. Without a word he rushed inside the barn and brought out Ruy, who had been tethered to the broken plough inside.

The reflex action⁠—the brooding⁠—had done this. It was his duty to punish her.

The evil thought had grown in his mind⁠—all her conduct had strengthened his belief that she was Martial’s mistress.

His unapproachable idol had degraded herself⁠—she must be punished⁠—her beauty must be broken as idols were broken. Not in revenge for her loving another, but because she had destroyed her ideal self. She was guilty of crime against herself, and that beauty which she had debased must be ground out of her face forever with Ruy’s iron hoof.

Her lover’s horse⁠—the horse she had fed and petted; yes, under Ruy’s hoof her beauty should perish. One stamp of that hoof and the lovely mould of her features would become indistinguishable. To kill her was nothing; he did not intend that, but that she should live in her crushed shame.

There could have been no more distinct proof of his insanity than his thinking to break the mould without inflicting death, for Ruy’s weight would press down the very brain.

For this chance he had watched morning after morning; but Martial had come too soon, or she had sat looking towards his place of ambush⁠—some little circumstance had delayed him. It was his or Ruy’s movements in the shadow that Felise had seen.

Holding the bridle, he stood a moment and looked down upon the captive.

One glance of intolerable indignation shot from her eyes; then she lifted her head and looked towards the wood⁠—looking for Martial.

He understood, and drew Ruy forward; the horse hesitated to advance, seeing her on the ground almost under him. At the trampling of his hoofs she turned her head again, and comprehended what Godwin intended to do. Her features flushed⁠—it was the suppression of the cry which her gagged lips endeavoured to utter.

Godwin pulled at the bridle. Ruy came up till his hoof cut the sward within a few inches of her ear, but would not step farther. Godwin struggled with the horse and tugged at the bridle. Ruy drew back; for the third time the man conquered and dragged him to her.

In that moment the undulation passed along her form, and she struggled to roll over⁠—to shield her face, to turn it to the ground. Godwin put his foot upon her chest, and pressing firmly prevented her. Dragging at the bridle he had aroused Ruy’s temper; Ruy jerked his head and would not come. Godwin paused and took out his pocketknife, intending to stab the horse and drive him by sudden pain over her.

His foot pressed heavily on her chest.

She raised her head; she saw a quick something pass through the air; it was in itself invisible, yet something passed; there was a sharp report, and she fainted.

The bullet struck Ruy by the temple; he staggered back, reared, and fell over on his side. By main strength Martial dragged Felise away along the ground, lest the last plunging kicks of the horse should strike her; but Ruy did not turn after he fell⁠—he was dead almost instantly. Robert had rushed from the spot at the sound of the rifle.

The little Lancaster oval-bore from which the shot had been fired lay among the thistles at the edge of the copse where Martial had dropped it. Emerging from the wood as he came to meet Felise, he saw Godwin’s foot upon her breast and the horse angrily jerking at his bridle. A shout died on his lips, and the rifle came up to his shoulder. As Robert took out his knife the tube was levelled, and in another instant the ball would have crashed through his brain. But Martial’s good genius, at the instant his finger felt the trigger, caused him to change his aim from the man to the horse; the tube scarcely moved a quarter of an inch, but that quarter of an inch made the entire difference.

In after-days he shuddered at the recollection that in his anger and fear for Felise he might have shot Godwin; the deed might be justifiable, still it would have been homicide, and a weight on his mind for years. The mere change of his thought⁠—a change effected in the hundredth part of a second⁠—had saved him from this.

He cut the rope; he lifted her head; he called upon her name. His kisses fell fast on her lips, and under those kisses she awoke to the consciousness of a stream of incoherent words full of one meaning⁠—love. Passion poured upon her⁠—a flood of love fell upon her heart. His trembling arms held her to his breast, his eyes swam with tears; she knew that he loved her, and her joy was supreme.